


Table Manners

by Lohrendrell



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Bad Flirting, Banter, Corvo Bianco (The Witcher), Dorks in Love, Fluff and Humor, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, M/M, Wine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:01:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28415043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lohrendrell/pseuds/Lohrendrell
Summary: In which Geralt is a dork, Lambert is a prick, and wine is involved, naturally.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Lambert
Comments: 14
Kudos: 57
Collections: The Witcher Secret Santa 2020





	Table Manners

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kaermorons](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaermorons/gifts).



> Happy Holidays to kaermorons! I'm your Secret Santa! :D There's a special flavour to this pairing, for sure. When I first saw you wanted Lambert to be WINED and DINNED I was like !!!!!!!!!! I hope you like some humor to go along with the tenderness and fluff (as much as Lambert will allow it xP).
> 
> Special thanks to Hema, who practically held my hand through this, offering great game lore knowledge on top of being an amazing beta! And Mandy, who gave me great tips on their banter and pierogi and also was an amazing beta! And Rawr, whose insight was just *chef's kiss*! ~~(Really, I didn't do anything y'all, they're the true heroes.)~~

Lambert couldn’t pinpoint how it started, exactly.

He and Geralt were never really that close. By the time Lambert walked his first years on the Path, Geralt was already the White Wolf—Gwynbleidd, the witcher who negotiated with dryads of the Brokilon Forest and left their realm in one piece. By the time Kaer Morhen got what it deserved with the pogroms, Lambert had already learned a thing or two on the Path—the most notorious one: when to take advantage and when to avoid being mistaken by the White Wolf _”from the ballads”_.

And by the time Geralt somehow got hold of an estate in Toussaint—a retired witcher, unprecedented; of course it had to be Pretty Boy—Lambert was already too fucking tired of the Path and everything that came with it, so he politely (for his standards) invited himself over to Geralt’s house. A wolf’s den must serve his pack, right?

He’d been mostly staying in Corvo Bianco ever since, coming to practically live there.  
Lambert didn’t know exactly how this routine of them came to be, but Geralt never told him to leave his property, so Lambert didn’t.

Geralt was this walking legend amongst men, a _Friend of Humanity_ or some shit like that, which Lambert thought was ridiculous. Most of his life, Lambert observed Geralt from afar, only exchanging a couple more words after Kaer Morhen became a fragment of what it once had been, and they had literally less than half a dozen other faces to spend their winters with.

But even at a distance, Lambert could tell that the Mighty White Wolf wasn’t anything more than a fucking dork.

“You don’t mix sacks of grains with the packages of soap _and_ the packs of hay,” Lambert said upon entering the storage room. The noise of the sacks and other goods being dragged around had caught his attention.

Geralt startled, hitting his head in one of the lower cupboards in the storage room. “Dammit, Lambert. Warn a man when you approach, will you?”

Lambert crossed his arms. “Retirement getting to you already, old man? You shouldn’t lower your guard so much, these lands are infested with higher vampires, you never know—”

“ _One_ higher vampire, and he’s not a threat. Leave him alone.” Geralt glared at him. From where he was crouching inside the tiny storage room, covered with flour and smelling of hay-sack, it didn’t have the effect he probably desired.

“Katakan, then,” Lambert said. “You’re gonna be eaten by a Katakan. You look like a badly baked pierogi.”

“Katakans don’t eat pierogi.”

“It’s on purpose, then? You decided to cover yourself with flour as, what, a disguise? That’s your idea of taking cover?”

Geralt ignored his taunting. “I cleaned off all the Katakans months ago,” he said.

“Doubt it. Katakans are never truly annihilated, not really. You miss one, dozens more spawn up in a couple of years.”

“Scared? You should hunt them yourself if you’re that afraid.” Geralt pointed at the packs of hay piled up on the other side of the room. “Help me with those, bring them over here.”

Lambert carried the three packs over, placing them next to Geralt, who went back under the shelves, pulling the packs as he went. 

Lambert couldn’t take another minute of the chaos Geralt was making. “Oi, don’t put the hay packs with the soaps and the food, I told you already!”

Geralt cursed, once more startled by Lambert’s brashness. Was he really that relaxed in that place? (Not that Lambert couldn’t understand it, with the constant smell of the grapevines and the quiet, peaceful landscape. Despite his taunting, it was true that Lambert hadn’t seen a single monster in weeks. But still. They were still witchers.)

“Yell louder, will you?” Geralt grumbled. “Not like the Duchess can hear you already.”

“Fuck off.” Lambert kicked Geralt’s ankle lightly, careful to not let his heavy boots hurt the other man’s bare skin. Motherfucker didn’t even wear boots anymore, walking inside the house either barefooted or with those weird footwear things Dandelion had gifted him—finger sleepers, or something like that; the newest trend in Mettina, apparently. “Don’t you have a housekeeper-kinda-thing to do this for you? Y’know, the guy with the stupid glasses? Where’s that weirdo, isn’t he supposed to be babysitting you all the time?”

“His name is Barnabas-Basil, and he’s got the day off.”

“Why?”

Geralt gave him a pointed look; Lambert suppressed the annoyance bubbling up his stomach at the sight of it. “He’s not my slave, Lambert. I make sure he has as many days off as he wants.”

Lambert huffed. “Why does he need days off?”

“How should I know? I don’t meddle in other people’s business.”

Lambert snorted. “Yeah, you save your nosey nose for mages and politicians.”

Geralt looked at him indignantly but stayed quiet.

Lambert continued, “Yeah, well, I’m sure poor bastard needs lots of those—days off, I mean—considering, y’know.” He gestured vaguely at Geralt.

“Weren’t you going to hunt some Katakans today?”

“I thought you’d cleaned them all off? Admitting to a lousy job, old witcher?”

“In your dreams. I don’t do lousy jobs.”

“Rumor has it that that sorceress of yours vehemently disagrees.”

“Bite me, Lambert.”

“Without wine and dinner first? I’m not a slut. Tsk, scoot over. Give me that.”

Geralt was still eyeing him indignantly, but he gave Lambert some space to squat next to him in the tiny storage room. Very quickly, Lambert reorganized the shelves the way they were supposed to be: soaps on the floor, because the rats wouldn’t eat them; food at the top, with the most sensitive ones closer to the door, where it was more airy; the packs or hay in between them.

Lambert asked, “Why the fuck are you keeping all the hay in here, anyway? It is supposed to go iton the stables.”

“Roach will eat it all overnight if I leave it there. I’m tired of buying new packs every week. The merchant has already caught on, he’s upping his prices just for me and thinks I didn’t notice.”

“Lock your horse down at night, then. Don’t leave her walking around the stables.”

“Your gelding also eats it all,” Geralt said, pointedly.

Lambert shrugged. “Lock him down as well.”

“No.”

Lambert sighed, exasperated. “Geralt, you’re a disaster. How the fuck did the Duchess trust you with an entire ass estate?”

He expected a snarky retort, but Geralt only laughed. “Where did you learn to organize that?” he asked, nodding to the shelves. “You never touched those things in Kaer Morhen.”

“My mother,” Lambert said, “used to work in the baron’s house, took me with her sometimes, made a game out of arranging the storage room. Don’t ask anything more.”

“Huh. The more you know.” Geralt patted him on the back and got up, grabbing a couple of the fruits inside the storage room as he went. “Come on, let’s eat some lunch.” 

Geralt’s kitchen was always immaculate, Lambert would admit that. Always smelling fucking great, with Marlene constantly spawning her pies, cakes, and bread for them to eat.

Today, it was the smell of Marlene’s fried fruit bread permeating the air. Not as freshly baked as Lambert had become used to—perhaps from earlier in the morning or yesterday night—but it was fresh enough.

“Marlene’s got the day off too,” Lambert guessed, following Geralt to the modest eating table by the opposite wall.

“Mmm,” Geralt hummed as he took some plates and placed them on the table along with the food. Marlene had left some juice, and Geralt put the jar right in the middle of the table, in between his and Lambert’s plates. “Everyone is. Today’s special. Preparations for a festival at the end of the week. Happens every year. The festival isn’t a big deal, but resting all day is. Might be something religious.”

“Oi!” Lambert took the plate with sweetbread, holding it away from Geralt’s flour-dirty hand.

“What?”

“Clean yourself up before sitting at the table.”

Geralt snorted. “You’re not talking to Ciri, y’know.” He reached to the plate again, but Lambert slapped his hand away. “Ouch! What’s wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong with _you_! No manners whatsoever, you’re worse than Ciri.”

“Godsdamnit. Fine!” Geralt got up and went to the basin filled with water. “Damn prick always chooses the most random times to be pricklier,” he grumbled while washing his face, hands, and forearms, all under Lambert’s scrutiny.

“You’re damn right I do,” Lambert said.

“Better now?” Geralt asked, showing off his arms to Lambert. He didn’t wait for an answer before flopping down on his seat and stuffing food in his mouth. Not that Lambert cared for answering—he was also more preoccupied in stuffing himself like a pig, as he did every meal.

(What could he say? After so many years fighting malnourishment on the Path, it became a habit to eat all he could and then some more whenever he was offered.)

“So,” Lambert started, disliking silent meals—even without any tension whatsoever, it was too attached to bad memories.

“Hmm,” Geralt grunted, ever the conversationalist.

“This festival and whatever… So, what’re you doing about it?”

“What do you mean?” Geralt asked, his mouth full. “Nothing.”

“Heh. Thought you’d already converted to their religion or whatever.”

Geralt frowned.

Lambert gestured at him. “Look at you, White Wolf. Master of devout peasants—”

“I’m not their _master_ —”

“—adapting to your new life. I’d think you’d already converted by now.”

Geralt rolled his eyes, and lightly kicked Lambert’s shin under the table.

“I’m not _changed_. I just…”

He looked pained for a moment, so Lambert decided to let it go. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever. You’re good, this is good. It’s just this damn day. Nothing to do, nobody else on the property. I’m bored as fuck.”

Geralt gave him a blank stare. “Calling my company boring. That’s harsh even for you, baby wolf.”

“Don’t fucking call me baby wolf.”

“Don’t fucking call me boring.”

“Ugh. You’re more difficult than Marlene.”

Geralt grinned. “She’s giving your smart mouth some trouble, isn’t she?”

“No. Don’t wanna talk about it.”

Geralt laughed. “Fine, fine. Tell you what. How about dinner tonight?”

“Dinner? Trying to get into my pants, Pretty Boy? Does that really work with any of your women?”

Geralt raised an eyebrow and smiled at him in that patronizing way of his. As if telling him, _weren’t you keeping count?_

Lambert punched him in the shoulder.

“Ouch!” Geralt yelped. “What was that for?”

“For being a cocky whoreson.”

“If you want to punch a bastard, why don’t you try hitting your own face?”

“And ruin this?” Lambert gestured at his own face. “Leave you without something to drool over? Can’t do that, I’m too altruistic.”

Geralt huffed but smiled at him. “So. Dinner?”

“Will I get the best bottle in your winery?”

“Of course.”

“I mean I want to choose it.”

“You think I’m not giving you the best wine in this vineyard?”

“I’m not taking any chances. Come on, let’s go.”

Geralt’s vineyard was still a humble piece of property; still growing, he was a beginner in the trade, after all. Even so, his wine cellar was something that Lambert had never seen. Not even Kaer Morhen at its prime, with dozens and dozens of witchers to be fed and getting drunk in winters, had a wine cellar like that.

Its walls were built with some wood from Mettina, called sapele, polished over and over to bring its dark colours to life. The smell of wine was strong for a witcher, but not unpleasant. The thing was posh, more pristine than anything Lambert had ever seen any witcher owning, and the first time he stepped into that room, he’d wondered what it would feel like to make it his permanent residence. It was bigger than his own room back in Kaer Morhen.

(Geralt didn’t allow him to sleep in there. Not that Lambert was complaining; his own current room was even bigger than the wine cellar.)

“So,” Geralt said, “you said you wanted to choose.” He gestured with a quick flick of his shoulder. “Choose it.”

Lambert made a face and changed his voice a bit. “Pon my word!” he spoke with an accent, clearly imitating the posh, ridiculous man that always delivered the wine Geralt bought from Belgaard. “If you only allow me, sir, don’t mind if I do, uhh, choose one of your fine bottles.”

Geralt laughed. “I don’t know what’s more terrible—the fact that you’re channeling that man or the fact that you’re doing it perfectly.”

“Pon my word! You, sir, speak, uhh, almighty travesties.”

Geralt crossed his arms, still eyeing Lambert with amusement. “Do you practice this kind of shit at night in your room?”

“When I’m trying to muffle the sounds of you jerking off, yes,” Lambert said, quick as always, now in his normal tone of voice. He approached the wall filled with wine bottles, ridiculously proud of himself.

“What about this one?” Geralt pointed to some bottles labelled _Fiorano, 1258_. “It’s Dandelion’s favourite.”

Lambert scoffed. “No.”

“Why not? He's damn picky; if he says it’s good, then I trust him.”

“Well, I’m not Dandelion’s bitch, am I? I’m not gonna drink some obscure wine just because the damn bard gets off on it.”

“Fine, fine. Whatever you want. Damn princess.”

“Damn right I’m a princess. You better treat me like one.”

“Or what? You’re not putting out?”

Lambert flashed his teeth at the other witcher. “Wouldn’t you like to see that.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow. “Don’t say you didn’t ask.”

“Don’t go begging for mercy later. Now let me choose my wine in peace.”

“The Sangreal tastes good,” Geralt offered after a pause, during which Lambert scrutinized almost all the bottles. “The Duchess delivered it herself a while ago. It's the wine of the Ducal family. Don't you wanna know what it tastes like?"

“If it’s good for the Duchess, then it’s not good for actually getting drunk. No use to us at all.”

“Who said tonight will be about getting drunk?”

“Geralt, please. You don’t expect me to survive an entire night with you sober.”

“You went the whole winter and then some, stop complaining.”

“That’s your mistake right there, assuming I didn’t get my emergency vodka pouch whenever I saw you approaching.”

Geralt punched him lightly in the arm. 

“Ouch,” Lambert said, rubbing his unarmored arm in mockery. “Very romantic, Pretty Boy. I can already see our divorce.”

“Oh, I’ve never mentioned a wedding.”

“You don’t have to. It’s just the way you roll.”

“I’ve never mentioned this being a date, either.”

“Again, you don’t have to.” Lambert gestured at himself. “Not like you could ever resist this.”

He waited for a jab back, but Geralt only smiled at him as he picked up a different bottle of wine. “How about mine?”

“Your body? No, too prickly, too full of shit, holds too big of a head. Not my type.”

“I mean my wine, asshole.” Geralt placed the wine bottle in his hands. “It’s only my second year producing it, but I think the first batch was alright. Got lots of good people overseeing the process. Good employees.”

The mere mention of a witcher having _employees_ obfuscated even the fact that Lambert was in a wine cellar, in a peaceful estate, no weapons, not even an armour on, discussing the drinking options for the night. Not that they knew _anything_ about good, expensive, posh wine. They were used to drinking the best they could get their hands on, not many other requirements needed. It was either the cheapest ale they could find, or the experimental beverages Lambert brewed in winters, during the heightestest of boredom.

_Geralt is a very distinct kind of wild_ , Lambert thought, absurdly.

“This is fine,” he finally said. “It will do.”

“Good.” Geralt gave him that puppy dog smile of his, the one Lambert quickly learned often appeared when Geralt thought he’d pleased someone.

Lambert looked away.

“I’m not cooking. I’m not even touching—no, I’m not even _entering_ the kitchen until everything is ready,” he said as he walked away from the cellar.

“Not fair,” Geralt protested. “You know Marlene is out today.”

“What can I say?” Lambert turned around, opening his arms as he spoke, never actually stopping his trek out of the room. “I’m a damn princess.”

He expected Geralt to lash out at him, but once again, Geralt just laughed.

Lambert made a point of forgetting the conversation for the rest of the day. He took a walk on the estate, enjoying the peacefulness of the field completely devoid of humans.

Not that Geralt’s employees ever treated him like a freak. No, they treated Lambert like he was a _comrade_. They were a weird lot, for sure. Or maybe they just thought all witchers were nice like Geralt.

Lambert snorted, annoyed at the prospect that he’d have to _stay_ in Corvo Bianco now, to keep watch on these people if a hostile witcher ever came across their path.

(Yeah. To keep watch. That was all there was to it.)

Because he’d forgotten about Geralt’s whole ridiculous ordeal, Lambert was surprised when he went into the dining room that night and saw the usually bare table now decorated, completely changed with thematic knick-knacks. Geralt stood by the table, waiting for him. With a pretty new chemise, too.

“Where did you get all this stuff?” Lambert asked.

Geralt snorted. “Very charming.”

“Oh, you want me to be charming?” Lambert made a show of taking one of the napkins in the table and, after flapping it exaggeratedly, tucking it in his (worn out and quite ordinary, actually) chemise. “There. Better?”

Geralt eyed him up and down, which… made Lambert’s blood… boil. Yeah, he’d call it that.

“Better,” Geralt decided finally and went to sit down at the table.

“Ah-ah,” Lambert said, gesturing and making Geralt stop. “Help me sit at the damn table.”

“What? What for?”

“You want me to be the only damned charming one in this shitbagger of a _date_? No fucking way. I do my part, you do yours.”

Geralt sighed. “You did say you wanted to be treated like a damn princess.”

“And what part of that didn’t you understand? Come on, Pretty Boy, be the Prince for once, will ya.”

Geralt did, in fact, move the chair so Lambert could sit. He made a show out of it, plastering a funny expression that he probably thought was attractive. Lambert let him live with that illusion, he wasn’t that heartless.

Dinner was actually fun, though. He could tell Geralt made an effort in it, which Lambert sincerely appreciated. Nothing like being fed with care.

Geralt talked about the exotic, sophisticated places he’d been buying stuff from. Rich wood from Mettina, window frames from Vicovaro, and so on, and on, and on. Lambert really wasn’t paying attention to what Geralt was saying—Geralt liked to talk, but only half the time he made it interesting.

At some point, Geralt stared at him expectantly, eyebrows raised, clearly waiting for Lambert to react to something.

“Interesting,” Lambert said, like a liar, going back to his wine immediately while Geralt went back to his ramblings.

The wine was pretty damn good, actually. Not too sweet, but not dry either. He’d have to remind himself to ask someone about wine knowledge—no way he was asking Geralt—because, considering the influx of wine he’d be receiving once Geralt really got it going with his new business, Lambert would get spoiled. He’d be the new whats-his-face, delivering wine everywhere, except he’d drink half of it and sell the other half himself.

This one was pretty good, though.

Some time later, Lambert looked up when he noticed a pause in Geralt’s endless speeches. There it was again, Geralt’s cocky smile with the raised eyebrow. He thought he had all the game in the world, the bastard. Lambert would show him.

With a quick motion, he took his boot offand slipped his foot in between Geralt’s legs. He found his bare ankle easily, and as Geralt talked, ran the tip of his toes softly on the (surprisingly smooth) skin.

Geralt’s reaction was to pause for a couple of seconds, only to keep talking, as if nothing was happening. _The bastard._

Well, two could play that game.

He kept eating his surprisingly good meal and running his toes over Geralt’s ankles, light touches he knew were pleasant from the occasional times someone else did the same to him.

(Keira. It was Keira who’d done it to him that one time, when they’d been just starting that excuse of a fling, and Lambert had nearly jumped her.)

Not so much time passed until Geralt’s incessant talking died down. He stared at Lambert with those expectant puppy dog eyes of his.

“Careful, Pretty Boy,” Lambert said, stuffing a piece of sweetbread in his mouth and not bothering to chew it properly—or even swallow—before talking. “Don’t fall in love with me.”

“I’m not the one trying to give me a footjob under the table.”

“Of course you wouldn’t know what a real footjob is,” Lambert sighed theatrically. “Sorry to break it to you, but the actual deed goes way beyond holding hands with an actual partner.”

“Partner?”

“I said don’t fall in love with me! This isn’t a wedding or anything, just in case you’re not sure.”

“Who said anything about a wedding?” Geralt crossed his arms over his chest, smiling cockishly. “Now who’s the delusional one here?”

“I brought it up as a preventive measure,” Lambert said sharply. “Knowing you, you already planned our entire venue _and_ the side dishes. Dandelion must be on his way with thirty other bards to sing the adventures of the Mighty White Wolf, upgraded to the regular ball and chains.”

Geralt’s response was to throw a pieróg at him.

Lambert’s shock lasted less than a second. “Oh, no, you didn’t.”

Geralt was _still_ giving him that smile of his. It was infuriating (and, if Lambert bothered to be honest for a second here, he was starting to maybe admit that it was also a bit, just a bit sexy. But mostly infuriating!).

Lambert threw a slice of apple at Geralt.

Geralt threw another pieróg at Lambert.

Very quickly, it became a war. They threw stuff at each other more than ate any of it. The wine survived, though. Both of them didn’t even think of weaponizing a bottle, even though it would get them an easy victory in their battle.

By the end of it, they were laughing, puffing up as if they’d battled a damn Katakan after all, all while being completely covered in food.

“Disgusting,” Lambert said, looking down at himself and his dirty chemise.

“Don’t be a prick, that was fun,” Geralt replied, and then the raised eyebrows and the cocky smile was back. “Take it off if it bothers you so much.”

“Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you, you prick.”

“I’m not the prickly one here, but yes. I’d like that very much.”

Lambert paused. He looked at Geralt.

Geralt was looking back at him. Intently. Very intently.

Lambert couldn’t tell who moved first. All he knew was that one second he was eating his food and being, y’know, _normal_ , and then the next second he had Geralt’s tongue down his throat.

It was an… interesting development of events.

When the deed was done, and Lambert and Geralt lay on the table, half of their clothes off and the rest that stayed completely stained with food, Lambert took the time to let the realization truly sink into him.

He didn’t know when it started. He couldn’t pinpoint, exactly, when he’d started to see Geralt _that_ way. He supposed it was good that it was happening like this. No need to fret about it.

Lambert had appeared one day on Geralt's doorstep, not really announcing he was coming to stay. Geralt never really said anything other than, “Welcome,” and he’d never told Lambert to leave.

Huh.

_Well, at least it isn’t melodramatic,_ Lambert thought. _Fuck that shit_.

“Geralt,” Lambert called.

“Yes?”

“That was the worst dinner I’ve ever fucking had.”

Lambert paused, allowing Geralt a moment to chuckle.

Then, he picked up the last glass of wine that somehow had survived their tryst on the table and unceremoniously spilled it on Geralt’s hair.

“Hey! You prick!”

It was Lambert’s turn to snicker. “Fucking brilliant.”


End file.
